


Ground Ain't Comfy But It's Better'n A Bunkhouse

by ialpiriel



Series: The Doofus Noodle Gets Up To Shit [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/F, Masturbation, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ialpiriel/pseuds/ialpiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the soon-to-be Courier Six gets off under the Mojave moon, thinking about a pretty girl from a magazine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ground Ain't Comfy But It's Better'n A Bunkhouse

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on the [Fallout Kinkmeme](http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5646.html?thread=14276366#t14276366)

She’s got another day into Primm, where she’s gonna drop off her package. She’s got another package to pick up there, and really this one she’s got is bound for someone further north anyway, but that ain’t her leg of it. She’s got a job in Primm. _Good-paying_ job in Primm. Been watching NCR and Legion go at each other like the family dogs would, ain’t no one really biting yet but they ain’t real happy either. Caps won’t hurt, when shit hits the fan.  


‘Course, that’s all future-thoughts.

Present-thoughts include the fact she’s got a new magazine in her pack, and a full moon to read it by, and that she _ain’t_ got a chance of being eaten by nightstalkers here. Dens got cleared last week, courier in the last waystation had said. Ain’t see a scale or heard a rattle since. She bought a couple doses of antivenom just in case, but shouldn’t be so much of a problem, at least.

So she shucks her coat and considers eating the can of Cram in the bottom of her bag before deciding it ain’t necessary tonight. Folds up her coat into something like a cushion, sits her bony ass down on it--better’n rocks, at least. Tosses her hat and her bandana next to her backpack, kicks off her boots but leaves her grody wool socks--damn things need washed, but hell if she’s washin’ em at a waystation, someone’ll yoink ‘em if she looks away for ten seconds--shuffles her hips weird so she can get her pants off her bare butt, then twists until she can yank ‘em off her legs. Turns ‘em inside out to see what her patchy rotty bits are doing to the insides of her clothes, groans when she sees the stains growin’. Shit, she’s gonna need new clothes soon. If this ghoulification thing’d speed up, maybe let her suffer for a week instead of this awful years-long deal that’s gonna ruin all her fuckin’ clothes, she’d be a happy woman. Well, sorta. Already too nervy on the rotty bits, don’t need to be a walking nerve. Not really. Days where clothes don’t feel like sandpaper are nice, even if they ain’t real common right now.

Shit, though, that’s for her future self to deal with, Ain’t like she’s got water’n soap out here so she can scrub the stains. Ain’t like it’ll do her any good, either, she’s puttin’ the same pants back on in an hour anyway. Tosses ‘em on top of her hat and her bandana, still inside out. Future Problem, ain’t hers.

Drags her backpack over into her lap, shoves the paper-wrapped package she’s gotta deliver out of the way, while she digs through looking for the new magazine.

Mag is at the bottom, ‘course, ‘cause ain’t no way somethin’ new and fresh and smellin’ like sour new ink is gonna sit at the top. Half the pages are folded back weird, and one of ‘em is ripped, but the picture’s so low-contrast, out in the moonlight, ain’t like it was the one she was gonna use anyway. Someone in Primm’ll have some clear tape she c’n use, hopefully. Keep it for a night when she’s the only one in a waystation bedroom, or when she can actually afford a motel room with running lights’n shit. Get her rocks off during the day sometime, for a change of pace. Maybe even somewhere with a real bed.

Hell, that’s more of a fantasy than any of these pretty girls is.

Tries to smooth out the folded pages, but it don’t really work, so she flips past ‘em and to the flat ones. Ain't a real good selection here, but she’ll make do with what she’s got.

Kinda wishes there was more art porn in these magazine, instead of straight up (ha, _straight_ up) shots of vulvas’n shit. Fancy nicely-posed girls in pretty underwear, done up in black and white so that the contrast is good. Maybe some artfully-applied smears of ‘engine grease’ on the motor-shop pinup girls like this’n, though maybe a set of coveralls on ‘em would do the girls nice too. Can’t imagine getting the nips caught in an engine is all that fun. Or getting oil in your bits. Or laying on a concrete floor ass-naked ‘cept for a thong. Seems like it wouldn’t be real comfy. Kinda ruins any enjoyment you could get from it, takes you right out of the moment, even if the girl is pretty.

Next page is a big lady supermutant wearing pretty underwear. That’s nice. Has nice ab muscles, thighs like tree trunks. Attractive. Sort of lady who could pick you up and carry you around. One-finger kind of gal.

She files that one away for later, in better light.

Flips a few more pages--human with a toy, human in pretty undies, ghoul in a dominatrix outfit, another supermutant though this time she’s buck-ass naked--before she finds a picture she’s willing to get off to.

Pretty girl, dark skin and darker hair, the sort of strong a well-fed henry is, and you can tell she’s supposed to be one in this picture, with the hammer against the wall and the train-sort of junk laying around. Wearin’ a shirt yet, but ain’t got pants or panties. Posed all natural-like, too, sittin’ on a bed with one leg slung off the side, laughin’ at somethin’ off-page, even with her hand real close to her bits. Couple fuzzed-out people in the background like shes in a bunkhouse. Looks real comfortable. Looks real pretty too.

Shoves her backpack out of her lap, sets the magazine up against it and holds it in place with a rock. Fumbles for a bottle of water, dumps it over her hands, shakes her fingers off before wiping them on her unfortunately dusty shirt. Stretches her legs out on either side of her pack--glad for her socks, they may be gross and a li’l too warm for the Mojave desert, but they’re thick enough they’re good padding when you don't wanna wear shoes--and leans back on one hand. Right hand, worse hand, hand with the rot creeping all down the back and not just ‘cross her knuckles.

Tips her head back as she starts to rub herself, slow, tries to think up more senses. Sure, you c’n just look at a pretty girl, but lookin’ sure as hell ain’t the same as bein’ there.

Girl like that’d smell like sweat, probably, sweat and iron. Not sweat like you been out in the sun all day, but sweat like...sweat like you ran a footrace and just ain’t showered since. So you c’n smell it but ain’t overpowering. Iron’s harder to keep off you, sinks into your hands and your clothes, gives everything the same heavy reek.

Sweat’n iron, and maybe some grease too, gets on your hands on the lunch car. Wash it off, sure, but it sinks into you same as iron.

Girl like that’s gonna have calluses on her hands, same as Mam’s--and shit, don’t think of your mother when you’re trying to get yourself off, that’s fucked--but calluses across her palms an’ up her fingers, just enough to catch on smooth skin, enough you don't maybe want her fingers on your bits, but just enough you don’t mind ‘em on skin. Li’l bit of extra texture, thoughts of her mouth on her neck, fingers--in her hair? hard when she got it all whacked off so it’s stubble; on her scalp instead?--thigh between hers. Strong enough to pick a girl up, carry her to bed, lay her down. Strong enough to pick a girl up, settle her on her lap, rub at her clit while she sucks hickies on your neck.

Fuck.

She spreads her folds, keeps rubbing up and down. Easy enough. Lifts one knee so she can brace her heel a little more against the ground, curves her other leg so her calf is pressed to the side of her backpack. Shifts her butt on her makeshift cushion, for better access and so her sitbones stop digging into the dirt. Fuckin’. Sitting on the ground. Needs to get a room somewhere she can call hers. Build a shack into a hill, maybe, so she can hide it just off a road. Somewhere she can have a real fuckin’ bed so she don’t have to--

Argh.

Opens her eyes, looks up at the sky.

Helluva lot of stars out here.

Helluva lot of stars out here, looking down at her while she gets herself off to some girl in a magazine.

Gets her thumb on her clit--well, kinda, mostly, close enough; hell, ain’t anyone out here to argue with about the terminology of bits--has to lean weird on her hip above her mostly-straight leg, lever half her butt off the ground with her bent leg, so she can get a finger inside. ‘S easier, then, to think about pretty girls and their fingers and their mouths. Don't need so many pictures then. Don’t have to get in the mood.

Still nice to think about a pretty girl with dark hair and a soft mouth, though. Think about her tongue on your clit as you up the intensity, think about her curling her fingers inside you while you do the same. Nice to think about her leaning over you; thick thighs straddling your hips; biceps like, like, _shit_ , she don’t _know_ , henries have biceps in a class all their own; hands that do honest work and show it.

Nice to think about her below you, too, screaming as she comes, hair dishevelled, eyes dark, shit maybe she ain’t even got her clothes all the way off. Shirt above her tits, pants and undies yanked down jst enough to get to her bits--haha, tits’n’bits--hands on your hips as you push two fingers into her. Way she’d clench around you as, as--

And fuck, that’s it, she’s done. Bites her lip as she comes, hard, against her hand.

Rides it out, before she lets her legs flop back on the ground, knees straight. Fumbles so she can wipe her hand on her blanket, knocks the magazine shut best she can with one of her wobbly knees. Leans back on her hands and considers the cover of the magazine for a moment--GIRLS FOR GIRLS written across the top front in bright white bold letters, easy to read in the moonlight; pictures a loss though, tangle of bad-contrasted limbs’n shit. Was pretty in the daylight, she remembers that much. Else she wouldna bought it.

Wipes herself down with her blanket--groans ‘cause now she’s got dust in her bits and that’ll be shitty tomorrow when she’s gotta walk--before she pulls her pants back on. Yanks on her boots, but doesn’t tie ‘em. Reties her bandana around her neck--sandstorm blows up in the night, it’ll be better’n no protection, and it’s a whole lot harder to lose when it’s right there--weights her hat down with the rock she used to keep the magazine open.

Shakes out her blanket, lumps it on top of her backpack while she shakes out her coat and refolds it into The Shittiest Bed Ever, then huddles down on top of her coat and pulls the blanket over her shoulders, rests her head on her backpack.

Looks up at the stars, picks out the bright ones, the ones that make pictures, the ones she can’t see ‘less she turns her eyes from ‘em just right, looks at ‘em until she drifts off.


End file.
